Weekend in the Country
by kenina
Summary: Jim and Christie visit Christie’s parents for the first time since the shooting, and drama ensues.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Weekend in the Country

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Set right after "Dance With Me"

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters belong to Steven Bochco Productions.

Summary: Jim and Christie visit Christie's parents for the first time since the shooting, and drama ensues.

Author's Note: This will be a multi-chapter fic- not sure how many yet. Please let me know what you thought.

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****Chapter 1**

_Honk!_

The earsplitting sound made me jump, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Jim doing the same next to me in the passenger seat. I jammed on the brake and our Volvo lurched to a stop as I looked back to see a little sports car race down the street past where I'd been trying to pull out of a parallel parking space.

"What happened?" Jim asked sharply.

"I looked before I started pulling out—that guy came out of nowhere!" I cried in annoyance—both at the other driver _and_ at my husband, somewhat irrationally. "Don't start in on my driving, please, Jimmy. Everything's fine."

"Hey, calm down. I just wanted to know what happened, that's all," my husband replied mildly. "I deserve to know if my life shoulda been flashing before my eyes…you know, so to speak."

I glanced over at him, and his blond head was turned toward me, that impish half-grin revealing his teasing intent. He'd taken off his suit jacket and tie, and his pale gray shirt, open at the collar, made his sparkling blue eyes seem even lighter than usual.

My heart still pounding from the close encounter, I couldn't quite bring myself to smile, but I managed a little humph to acknowledge his joke. Then I checked the street carefully and flipped on my turn signal in preparation for pulling out. On the second attempt, I merged into the flow of traffic, just in time for the light to turn red ahead of us at the next block. Sighing with impatience and frustration, I pressed the brake sharply again.

"Sorry," I said finally. "I just…you know I hate driving at rush hour. I guess I'm a little on edge."

"Don't we usually head up Saturday morning to avoid all this?" Jim waved his hand toward the window to indicate the gridlock around us.

Running a hand through my hair, I realized how hot and sticky I was, with the late afternoon sun shining in through the windows. I reached down to turn up the air conditioning. "We don't _usually_ go at all. Do you realize it's been a year ago at Christmas since we went to visit my parents?"

"They came to visit us a couple times, right? I mean, it's not like we haven't been a little preoccupied lately." Jim reached for the air vents and angled them away so they wouldn't blow directly in his face.

"I know, but…my mom's been bugging me to come up ever since you went back to work. And it's time we got back in the habit—they're not getting any younger."

Jim snorted. "Your parents are as healthy as horses, both of them."

"Still…" I couldn't think of a valid argument on that issue, so I switched tacks. "I don't know about you, but I'm really looking forward to getting out of the city for a couple days."

Jim shrugged. "Be nice if we coulda let Hank roam around a little," he said. I could hear the petulance creep into his tone, and knew what was coming next. "Speaking of which, what kind of people don't let a blind guy bring his guide dog to their house, huh?"

I took my eyes off the road for a half-second to send a glare in his direction, even though I knew he wouldn't appreciate it. "How many times are we going to have this conversation?" I asked pleadingly. "My mother's cat would have a heart attack if Hank stayed there. Please, Jimmy, just try to understand."

Jim drummed his fingers on the console between the driver's and passenger's seat. "I just can't help thinking it has to do more with your mother worrying about her white carpets."

I sighed loudly to indicate my disagreement. "Karen will take good care of Hank this weekend. She even seemed like she was looking forward to it. And plus, it's not like you _need_ him in the house, and that's mostly where we'll be."

Jim shrugged. "I guess. It's just…it feels weird, you know, going without him."

"I'm sure you'll manage," I said, not quite managing to keep an edge of sarcasm out of my reply. I sighed, realizing how bitchy I sounded and not meaning to. "Look, I'm sorry. I know you should be able to bring Hank anywhere you want. Maybe we can talk to Mom about it this weekend, explain that he's very well behaved around cats, see if we can get her to change her mind for next time."

"How about next time I just stay at home _with _Hank?" Jim replied in a caustic tone. "I'm sure they'd be just as happy with that arrangement."

I rolled my eyes. "That's not true—Mom specifically asked if you could make it. And the reason we're going up tonight instead of tomorrow is because Dad has a new exhibit at the gallery and there's a reception. I told you that last week. That's why I asked you not to change clothes after work."

Jim groaned. "You're kidding—they asked us to come up to go to a _photography_ exhibit, huh?"

"This is important to my dad," I replied defensively. "Isn't it better than them _not_ asking us to go just because you're blind?"

Jim shrugged. "I guess."

We were quiet for a few minutes, as I negotiated my way through busy streets, trying to reach the interstate to head north to Connecticut. "Hey, did you bring those magazines Kathy sent you last week?" I remembered suddenly. "I left them on your suitcase this morning."

Jim looked over in my direction and sighed. "Yeah, I know. They were kinda hard to miss."

"That was the point," I replied lightly.

"You know, I really don't need a lecture about practicing Braille every three days."

"Apparently you do," I said calmly. "I haven't seen you reading anything in months."

He shrugged. "What do I need to read, exactly? I got a scanner, a laptop that talks to me, and I can get all the books on tape I want at the library…"

"It doesn't matter, Jimmy. Kathy says if you don't know Braille, you're functionally illiterate."

"Hey," he barked. "Ease off, will ya? The day you lose _your_ sight, we'll talk about this again. Until then, I get to decide this one for myself, okay?"

"Fine," I replied tightly. "Then the next time Kathy calls, you get to tell _her_ that. So she'll stop nagging _me_ about it."

"Oh, my God," Jim groaned, sounding exasperated. "She's my rehab counselor, not my mother." He paused, then added, "And neither are you."

We lapsed back into silence then—me because I was hurt by his offhand comment, and him probably because he'd slipped into his typical argument avoidance mode. God forbid we ever work anything out so we can put it behind us. He'd rather suppress it all until the next time something blew up and all the old hurt and frustration came spewing out again. That had been the pattern since the beginning of our relationship—going from one blowup to the next, never resolving anything. We had an appointment on the calendar to meet with the couples therapist that Dr. Galloway had recommended, and I couldn't wait to get there and hopefully start fixing things between us. Not just smoothing over things, but getting to the root of our problems. If Jim could open up enough to let it happen.

"Hey, did you ever make the reservations for Boston?" Jim asked, breaking into my thoughts. "I gotta tell the lieutenant whether I'm taking the days or not."

I nodded, then said, "Yeah—they still had room at the hotel, thank goodness. We'll go up Wednesday night, the 15th, and the conference is Thursday and Friday, then we can do some sightseeing on Saturday and Sunday." I hesitated, afraid of the answer to the question I was about to ask. "You're _sure_ you'll be able to get off?"

I looked over to catch his nodded response. "I mean, unless there's some kind of emergency," he added. "You know it's never a 100 sure thing. But it looks good."

"Good," I said softly. "I'm glad you're coming with me. We're going to have a great time."

As we drove north out of the smothering traffic and exhaust fumes, I thought as I often did these days how grateful I was that I had the gift of sight, enjoying the view as the city gave way to roadside trees and billboards. Driving to Bristol, the town where my parents lived, always brought evoked memories of my childhood, and my mood lifted as we passed the exits for each small town near the interstate. The last time we'd made this trip, and many times before that, Jim had been driving, and I'd enjoyed the chance to relax and watch the world go by. At least he couldn't comment on my driving much anymore—his "helpful hints" from the passenger seat used to be one of the things about him that annoyed me the most.

The ride was quiet, with neither of us having much to say. Since he wasn't able to enjoy the scenery, Jim had brought along his laptop to keep from being bored, and as soon as our conversation had petered out, he'd stuck his earpiece in and started typing. Every so often, I'd glance over at him, concentrating hard on the mechanical voice emanating from the earpiece, staring intently at nothing. His short blond hair was sticking up in all directions, as usual, and I could see some stubble on one cheek that he'd missed that morning while shaving.

Eventually, I grew tired of the silence between us. "Whatcha workin' on?" I asked softly, casually.

"My notes from an interview we did today," Jim replied.

I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't, so I pressed on. "What's the case?"

Jim cleared his throat, and I wondered if that meant he was irritated at having to explain. "The DOA we had Monday—the guy in the park we thought was a drug deal gone bad? Can't find any evidence that he used, so we're having to look into other areas of his life, see if anyone mighta had a reason to kill him. Interviewed the wife and girlfriend today."

"An _ex_-girlfriend?" I clarified.

Jim was silent for a moment. "No. He was seeing someone on the side."

"Oh." A familiar twinge of hurt and jealousy sprang up inside me at the mention of infidelity. "You sound pretty matter-of-fact about it."

"I am," Jim said. "It's a fact—the guy was stepping out on his wife, Christie. And when someone turns up dead with no other explanation, gotta think it was either for love or money."

"Couldn't it have been a random killing?" I asked.

"Not likely," Jim answered. "Usually it's someone the person knows. If we don't get any leads in the next couple days, though, we'll start looking at recently released cons with a history of random gun violence."

"I don't know how you do it," I said after another moment. "You see the worst of human nature every day."

Jim shrugged. "Somebody's got to. Might as well be me."

I reached over and brushed his cheek with the back of my hand. He reached up and took my fingers in his, squeezing lightly, then brought them to his lips and kissed them gently. The impulsive act of tenderness surprised and touched me. "Are we there yet?" he asked, smiling at the childish phrase.

I chuckled as my eyes scanned the roadside for an exit number or billboard sign. "Maybe 30 minutes out," I estimated. "And that's the last time you get to ask that question. You know how long it takes to get there, and you're wearing a watch—that's why I bought it for you, so you'd stop asking me what time it was every five minutes."

"Yeah, but bugging you is so much more fun," Jim teased.

"Is it fun to have to hitchhike to your in-laws' house?" I shot back, smiling.

Jim held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay. Geez, you don't cut a guy any slack, do you?"

"You wouldn't have it any other way, sweetie," I said in a syrupy voice.

Another silence descended between us, but this time it felt less tense to me, so I let it ride. Jim kept working on his notes for a while, and finally shut down the computer and reached into the backseat to put it back in its carrying case. "Battery's dying," he explained. "Remind me to charge it when we get to your parents'."

I nodded. "Okay."

"So…" Jim started, and from the tone of his voice, I knew whatever he said, it wasn't going to be pleasant. "There anything I should know before we get there? Like, is your family mad at me?"

I thought about that for a moment, choosing my response carefully. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," he started. "They've just been kind of distant ever since I got shot—especially your dad. He barely said two words to me when they were at your sister's place for Christmas."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Jimmy."

"Look, if they're just being weird about the blindness, that's one thing. But something tells me there's something else going on."

"What exactly do you think is going on?"

"I don't know," he said, then added, "It's just…you know your dad's never been my biggest fan—"

"That's not true—" I started to interrupt, but Jim held up a hand.

"We both know it is," he continued. "But since I got shot, it seems like he's…I don't know, _mad_ at me or something. He even avoids talking to me on the phone."

I sighed. "I don't know much. He keeps stuff to himself—like somebody _else_ I know," I said pointedly. "But…I know he was upset that you didn't take the teaching job the department offered you. I think he's worried that you're going to get hurt again, now that you're back on the job. And, you know, carrying a gun, being out in the field."

"I'm a _cop_, Christie," Jim said, obviously frustrated. "I'm not a teacher. You understand that, right?"

"Yes, Jimmy," I replied. "But my dad's worried—about you, and about me, if something were to happen to you. He wanted you to retire when you got shot, and start another career. You can hardly blame him."

"You know what? Actually, I _can_," he retorted. "He's never even tried to understand who I am. Let's face it—he didn't want you to marry a cop in the first place. Especially one from Red Hook who joined the Army out of high school and has a drunk for a father."

"That has nothing to do with anything," I said defensively. "My dad's a small town doctor with three daughters—you two just don't have much in common. But he's always treated you like a son. Even before we were married."

"Yeah—the son that could never quite measure up to his expectations," Jim replied bitterly. "Sarah married a doctor, and Kelly married a lawyer," he continued, referring to my two older sisters. "But not you—you had to go marry a New York cop." Jim uttered a short, dry laugh. "I bet he's mad at me for getting shot because he thinks I won't be able to support you, so you can stay at home and have babies, like your sisters."

"Jimmy, that's a terrible thing to say," I said softly. "He doesn't feel that way, and neither do I. I love my career—I don't do it because I _have_ to, I do it because it's who _I_ am. And my father knows that."

"If you say so," Jim replied. "But I'm telling you, he's been upset about something since before I even started trying to get my job back."

"I think it's all in your head, Jimmy. You'd just been shot and lost your sight. It was an emotional time for everyone." I put my hand on his thigh, and he covered it with his hand. "Dad'll come around once he sees how well you're doing now. Just don't talk about Hank getting kidnapped by drug dealers, or that guy shooting himself in front of you, okay? Talk about writing reports and working forgery cases, boring stuff like that."

Jim laughed. "Check—no kidnapping or suicide stories. How about busting down a guy's door and getting sucker punched in the gut?"

My eyes widened in horror in the split second before it occurred to me that he was joking. "I think the most excitement my dad's ever seen in his job was the time Mr. Henderson had a heart attack in the office and Dad had to do CPR until the paramedics came. He just doesn't get why you do what you do."

"And he doesn't want to," Jim added, then sighed. "Look, I'll leave out the dangerous stuff, but if he brings up the teaching job, or asks why I went back to work as a cop, I'm gonna lay it on the line for him, Christie."

"Just be nice about it. Try to understand where _he's_ coming from, too."

Jim nodded. "I will if he will."

"Good." The next exit was the one for Bristol, and I angled the car off the interstate, headed for my childhood home. "We're almost there."

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I love feedback - it motivates me to write more:-) 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Weekend in the Country

Rating: PG-13 for mature themes and language

Spoilers: Set right after "Dance With Me"

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters belong to Steven Bochco Productions.

Summary: Jim and Christie visit Christie's parents for the first time since the shooting, and drama ensues.

Author's Note: Sorry, this chapter took longer than expected. It's also a lot longer than expected! Enjoy and please leave a review to motivate me to write more. :-) Lots of credit on this chapter goes to Zuzuu5 and The Divine Mrs. E, who gave me insights on this chapter that got me past a bit of a block and made the story much better than it would've been otherwise. So thanks!

**Chapter 2**

Ten minutes after leaving the interstate, I was turning our Volvo into my parents' long driveway. They lived just outside the town limits in the same house they'd bought 40 years ago, a century-old white clapboard farmhouse on four wooded acres. As we drove down the tree-lined, gravel drive, everything I saw made me both nostalgic for my childhood and happy to be returning after such an extended absence. A tiny wriggle of worry popped up alongside the pleasant feelings, as I remembered Jim's remarks about my dad, but I managed to push them aside and focus on the vivid memories that leapt to mind everywhere I looked.

"Oh, my mom's roses are gorgeous this year," I told Jim. "We'll have to go see them later." The magenta blooms that wound around a long split-rail fence separating our property from the next were my mother's special project, and I knew how much hard work went into them year after year.

I barely had time to shut off the engine once we pulled up beside my parents' blue Camry in the front yard before the front door burst open and a tiny, dark-haired figure came rushing across the porch and down the steps. "Aunt Christie and Uncle Jimmy are here! Aunt Christie and Uncle Jimmy are here!"

"Lisa!" I called, stepping out of the car and opening my arms wide. My sister Sarah's six-year-old flew into my hug and squeezed tight.

"Aunt Christie! You're here!" The wriggling ball of energy in my arms looked up at me with adoring green eyes.

"We're here," I said, laughing. "And you've grown so much since Christmas! I almost didn't recognize you, you're such a big girl."

"Look, I lost a tooth and the tooth fairy came last night and gave me a dollar!" Lisa proclaimed, opening her mouth wide and pointing inside to a small gap.

I reached out and tipped up her chin to properly inspect her gums. "I'd say that tooth was definitely worth a dollar," I said with a grin.

Jim came around the back of the car, already carrying my small suitcase in one hand, and his computer case and duffel bag over one shoulder, tracing the side of the car with his free hand. "Come here, squirt," he said, setting my suitcase down and carefully squatting to her level.

"Uncle Jimmy!" Lisa skipped into his embrace with such enthusiasm that she almost knocked him over. He grabbed for the car and steadied both of them while he gave her a warm hug.

"Hey, how's my favorite first grader, huh?"

"I got all my spelling words right today!" Lisa crowed.

"Wow!" Jim said in a voice filled with appropriate awe. I smiled down at them, wishing I had a camera. "I bet you got a gold star."

Lisa pulled back from him, a puzzled expression on her face. Her hair, the same color as mine and almost as long, swished all around as she shook her head. "Was I supposed to?"

Jim laughed, and so did I. "No, sweetheart. It's just an expression. It means you did good."

The child smiled, her face brightening again. "Yeah, I did. And I already finished my homework, too, and then I drew a picture of you and Aunt Christie and me and Michael and Mommy and Daddy and Grandma and Grandpa. Wanna see?" She tugged on Jim's hand, and he stood, still smiling.

"Sure—you can tell me all about it," he said, swinging his hand in hers. "But first, I need a favor," he said, looking down in her direction. "I'm going to need some help finding the house. Can you be my guide?"

"No, I can take you, Jimmy," I protested, but he looked up toward me and gave his head a tiny shake, his brow furrowing.

"Nah—Lisa can do it, can't you?" he asked her again.

"Yeah, Aunt Christie, I want to be the guide," Lisa said in a plaintive tone, looking up at me hopefully. "Please?"

"Just be careful," I told her. "Your uncle is precious cargo, you know."

"Yay!" Lisa did a little hop to convey her excitement.

Smiling, Jim reached down to pick up my suitcase, but I moved toward it and interrupted his movement, gently pushing his hand away. "I've got this one—you go ahead," I said firmly, not wanting to give his male ego time to react.

He nodded his assent, then reached out to Lisa and found her shoulder, nudging her to turn around and gripping her lightly. "Onward," he told her, and she giggled, then started marching forward.

Reaching back inside the car to grab my purse, I heard Lisa ask as they walked away, "Uncle Jimmy, are you still blind like you were at Christmas?"

_Out of the mouths of babes_, I thought wistfully, though I couldn't help smiling at the innocent question. I turned to follow them into the house and watched as Jim stumbled at the first porch step, and stopped, explaining to Lisa that she needed to tell him that they were about to go up stairs. They went slowly up the rest of the way, and I caught up to them at the door and held it open as they went into the foyer.

The house looked inside as it always had—my mother loved traditional décor, so everything was antique hardwood, lace, and tasteful floral wallpaper. I also smelled the familiar scent of coffee brewing, and it reminded me of my father, who drank several cups a day.

The massive mahogany grandfather clock in the entrance hall was just striking six o'clock as we came in. Once inside, Jim released Lisa and ruffled her hair. "Grandma!" she called in a singsong voice, skipping down the hallway toward the kitchen. "They're heeeeere!"

My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. "So they are," she said with a smile. Lisa turned and led her back down the hallway toward us. My mother reached Jim and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, then put her arms around him, managing to avoid the two bags still hanging on his shoulder. "You look terrific," she told him. "Christine, doesn't he look just wonderful?" she asked me in an overly cheerful and slightly louder-than-normal voice.

I rolled my eyes and started to shake my head in dismay at her overreaction, but my wonderful husband just replied casually, "Thanks, Diane. It's good to see you," and gave her a quick squeeze. "You smellterrific—that a new perfume?"

"Yes, it is!" she exclaimed, as if his offhand observation was the most insightful thing she'd ever heard. "Jeffrey bought it for me for my birthday this year," she told him. "You like it?"

"Yeah," he said. "I do. Smells like flowers."

As they chatted, I set my suitcase down by the stairs and moved past Jim to receive my own hug and kiss from my mom. "I smell coffee—any left for us?" I asked her.

"Of course there is—I know you two," she said, and we both smiled. "Jim, let me take your bags up to your room," she said, reaching for them. "You must be tired."

"Nah, it's okay—I'll take them up," he protested, stepping to the right, toward the staircase. "Hey, Lisa?" he called.

"Uh-huh?" She poked her head out of the living room, where she was apparently watching something on television, based on the noises emanating from within.

"Thanks for helping me out," he said. "You're an awesome guide."

Lisa smiled and her cheeks turned pink with pleasure. I knew the compliment from her uncle had just made her day. "You're welcome," she said shyly.

"I have to go upstairs for a minute, and then you can show me that picture, okay?"

"Okay," she said happily, then disappeared again.

Jim took another step toward the stairs, and by the time I realized the mistake I'd made, it was a split second too late. I didn't even have time to open my mouth to warn him before he tripped over the suitcase I had dropped there unthinkingly. Fortunately, he was moving tentatively with one hand outstretched, and was able to catch himself against the stair banister and keep upright.

"Sorry, Jimmy!" I cried. I kept things off the floor instinctively in our apartment, but since we weren't in familiar surroundings, I had completely forgotten.

At the same time, my mother hurried over to him, grasping him arm. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he replied, smiling tightly. Moving away from my mother's grip, he reached down, found the suitcase at his feet, and ran his hand over it until he found the handle, then straightened back up. "Now I don't have to ask where the other suitcase is," he joked.

"Jim, why don't you let me take the bags upstairs, and you go with Christine to get some coffee?" my mother said, again, putting her hand on his arm again.

He smiled down at her patiently. "It's fine, Diane," he said, patting her hand. "I'll be right back." Gripping the stair banister tightly, he felt for the first step with one exploring foot, then headed up slowly.

My mother and I watched him go, then our eyes met expectantly. "Well," I said finally. "Could I have some of that coffee?"

As I walked behind her into the kitchen, I admired my mother's figure, still slim even at age 60. Her once-raven hair, shared by all three of her daughters, and now her granddaughter, was liberally sprinkled with silver. Besides being her mirror image, I had also inherited my mother's love of beautiful clothes, very evident that afternoon in her sky-blue sweater set and tailored black pants.

"Your dress is lovely," my mom said conversationally, gesturing to the sleeveless, flowered sundress I'd chosen to keep cool on a hot New York summer day. I knew her well enough to know she was using the topic as a distraction, but it wasn't going to work.

"Thank you," I replied. "Mom, listen—"

My mom held up a hand before I could finish. "I know what you're going to say, and you're right. I'm sorry—I'm hovering. I don't mean to, Christine, really—"

"It's okay—just relax," I told her. "He's not going to break. And if you keep fussing over him, it's going to be a really long weekend for all of us."

She smiled resignedly and sighed. "You're right, honey. I just…I just see him like that, and I want to help somehow." Seeming embarrassed, she turned to get a coffee mug and busied herself by pouring me a cup.

"You can help by just treating him like you did before he lost his sight," I replied, taking it from her and going to the refrigerator to get some milk. "Do you have any Equal?"

"I got some today, just for you," she replied, crossing to the pantry and pulling out a small blue box of my favorite artificial sweetener.

I smiled. "Thanks, Mama." As she handed me the box, I covered her hand with mine and let it linger for a moment. "He really is the same person he's always been."

She nodded. "Okay, honey."

After a few moments of small talk, I heard Jim come down the stairs. A few seconds later he appeared in the kitchen doorway, cane in hand and trailing the wall with the back of the other hand. He looked worried, so I asked, "Something wrong, sweetie?"

"Ah…" he began, moving toward the sound of my voice. He kept the cane close to his body as opposed to extending it full-length as he would outdoors or in a larger space. "I was coming down the hall upstairs, and…I think I might have stabbed the cat with the cane. I heard this, um, kind of screech? But I couldn't find her."

My mother gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, no, Rose!" she cried, obviously distraught. "You have to be careful—she's old and fragile!"

She headed toward the doorway, intending to hurry upstairs to look for the cat. Jim caught her with one hand as she moved past him, and I saw his contrite expression give way to the barest hint of a smile. "Diane…the cat's fine—it was just a bad joke."

"Oh, you!" she scolded him good-naturedly, slapping his hand gently. She shot me a look of relief as she added, patting his hand again, "Do you want some coffee?"

"Uh, no, I'm good, but thanks," he replied. "I'm gonna spend a little time getting reacquainted with the house. It's been a while, and I don't want to have to use the cane the whole weekend. So the cat will be safe," he added mischievously.

"I can take you around," my mother offered. "I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself—or Rose."

"I can handle it, Diane—I'm _usually_ not a danger to myself or others, and it's easier if I do it myself. But first, I have a family portrait to 'see,'" he said with a smile, then turned and headed in that direction to find Lisa.

When he was out of sight, my mother turned to me with a wistful smile. "Doesn't it make you sad?" she asked softly.

I shrugged, with my shoulders and my facial expression. "Not anymore, most of the time," I said truthfully. "I'm getting used to him this way. And I think he's getting used to himself."

My mother nodded, but I knew she would need more time to arrive at the same place emotionally that Jim and I had already reached. The whole family would, in fact. They hadn't been living with the blindness 24/7 for a year like we had. "So, where is everyone?" I asked, wondering why Lisa was here while my father and sister were nowhere to be seen.

"I picked Lisa up from school this afternoon so Sarah could help your father finish setting up the exhibit," my mother explained. My sister had just started volunteering at a nearby contemporary art museum, which housed a small gallery where local artists could display their work. My father, an amateur photographer in his spare time, had shown several exhibits there.

"What about Ethan?" I asked, referring to my sister's nine-year-old, Lisa's brother.

"Ethan has soccer practice, so Wes is picking him up later." Wesley Langdon, my sister's husband, was my father's partner in his medical practice.

"Are we going to eat before heading over there?" I asked, absently rubbing my growling stomach. "I skipped lunch so I could leave the office early."

My mother's brow wrinkled with distress. "They're having hors d'ouevres at the reception, so I thought we would wait until then," she explained. "I have strawberry shortcake here for dessert afterwards."

"No problem," I said with a wave of my hand. "I can wait." I sipped the last of my coffee and put the mug down in the sink. "Are we ready to go?"

My mother nodded. "I'll get my purse and collect Lisa, and you collect Jim."

I found Jim in the dining room, tracing the wall and furniture as he'd been taught to put together a mental image of the room. "Hey," I said softly. "We need to head out now to get to the reception on time."

"Okay," he agreed. "Don't want to miss a minute of the exhibit," he added facetiously.

He followed me to the door, and I was surprised when he propped the cane, still unfolded, in the corner of the entrance hall. "Aren't you going to bring that?" I asked.

Jim shrugged, turning around. "Nah…I want to have my hands free."

"Jim…" I sighed. "I think maybe you should take it with you. Just in case."

"Just in case what?" he asked. "Just in case you get sick of my hand on your arm? I mean, I don't want to be an inconvenience or anything," he finished on a bitter laugh.

"You know that's not it. I just…fine, let's just go." I nudged him with my elbow, but he didn't move until my mother and Lisa came into the hallway. Then he took my arm and we headed out.

My mother offered to drive, and I gratefully accepted, allowing Jim to have the front seat while I shared the back with my niece. The museum was in the center of town, housed in a renovated warehouse. I described it to Jim as we approached, because it reminded me a little of our apartment building and I wanted to share the similarity with him. He was quiet, and I wondered if he was still upset with me for suggesting he bring the cane. He wasn't usually sensitive about things like that—not recently, anyway. After Clay's party, I had resolved to ask him to bring the cane to social events, because I had felt so bad leaving him to stand alone, not able to orient himself at all in unfamiliar surroundings. Now I had to wonder if he actually _preferred_ to be dependent on me in those kinds of situations.

People were already starting to arrive as we parked and went inside. I saw my sister across the room and waved to her, then headed over, Jim in tow, to my father, who was talking animatedly with an old family friend. "Hi, Dad," I said, reaching out to hug him.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said with a smile. "Judy, you remember my daughter, Christine. And this is her husband, Jim Dunbar."

I hadn't seen Judy in years, but she still looked as I remembered her, a tall, willowy woman with gray-tinged blond hair tied back in a neat ponytail. "Of course!" Judy said, extending her hand to me. "Good to see you again, Christine. And Detective Dunbar, it's wonderful to meet you."

Jim reached his hand out toward her voice, and she grasped it warmly, covering it with her other hand. "Please, call me Jim," he replied.

"I followed your story in the Times, and Diane has kept me up to date, too," Judy continued. "I was so glad to hear that you finally went back to work." She paused, then added, "What you did was so brave."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," Jim said, smiling slightly. I reached out and rubbed his arm reassuringly.

"Well, I'll leave you three to catch up. Jeff, I'll talk to you later," Judy said, and disappeared into the growing crowd.

"Enjoy the exhibit," my father called after her, then looked at me as if to ask what he should say. I angled my head slightly toward my husband, imploring my father to speak directly to him.

"How've you been, Jeff?" Jim asked, angling his head toward my father and moving his hand over in that direction.

My father hesitated, then reached out and shook it. "Good. Thanks for coming," he said simply.

"We wouldn't have missed it," I said.

A short silence descended among us, and I smiled awkwardly. "Dad, why don't you tell Jim a little about the exhibit? I'm going to go get something to eat." I squeezed Jim's arm. "Do you want me to fix you a plate?"

"Sure," he said, forcing a smile. I felt a little bad about leaving him to fend for himself, but I this would be a good opportunity for him and my dad to talk a little.

My father didn't voice an objection, so I slipped away from the pair and headed for the small buffet stationed in one corner of the large, airy room. Without intending to do so, I meandered by the exhibit on my way over. About ten large, black mesh screens were set up in the center of the room, and they were covered with my father's photographs, stark black-and-white prints set against wide white mats and metallic black frames. The contrast was stunning, and I felt myself drawn to study them, even though my stomach continued to growl.

Most of the pictures were of everyday townspeople, caught unawares by my father's knowing telephoto lens. A small child throwing a tantrum in the street, his mother standing helplessly by, looking embarrassed. A trio of elderly men playing checkers in the town square. A young dog walker being pulled along the sidewalk, almost against her will. My father had brought the town to life and connected all of its citizens in suspended animation. The effect was mesmerizing. Goosebumps sprang up on my arms, and as I pondered the images before me, I allowed myself a moment of sorrow that Jim couldn't enjoy it with me.

"Hey, you, were you gonna spare a hug for your big sis anytime tonight?" I looked up from my reverie to see my sister Sarah approaching, and I smiled an apology. She looked as she always did, her short bob hairstyle setting off the high cheekbones and wide-set eyes she'd inherited from my father. Carrying two children had slightly rounded her figure, and though she always talked about losing those last ten pounds of baby weight, she never had.

"I got caught up in the pictures," I admitted opening my arms to embrace her. "They're so wonderful."

She pulled back from the hug and glanced over at them, then back at me. "He's very talented. I keep telling him he should turn the practice over to Wes and take pictures full-time, but he won't even discuss the idea."

I nodded, looking over to where I'd left the two men, and was surprised to see Jim standing alone, looking very discomfited, already checking his watch. "What happened to Dad? I left him with Jim."

Sarah shrugged. "He was there a minute ago. I went by to say hi, and they were just standing there. It was awkward—I guess Dad's still mad at Jim for going back to the police department."

"Is he really that upset about it?" I asked. "Did he say something to you?"

Sarah hesitated. "He's made a couple comments. You know him, it's more his style to grouse and grumble than just come out with it already. How's Jim doing, by the way?" she continued, deftly changing topics. "Can't imagine this will be much fun for him, huh?"

I echoed her shrug. "I asked Dad to tell him about the exhibit. Listen, I better go over there. It's good to see you," I said, kissing her on the cheek.

I threw a wistful glance back toward the buffet but continued over to Jim. "Where'd Dad go?" I asked him as I approached.

He turned his head at the sound of my voice, and lifted one shoulder, cocking his head slightly. "He said he had to go talk to someone. Look…is there a chair somewhere? You could just put me out of the way and—"

"Jim, no," I cut in. "You'd be miserable. Come on, let's get some food." I turned, nudging his arm with mine.

He took it, but seemed reluctant. "I thought that's where you went before."

"I got sidetracked," I told him. "Did Dad tell you about his pictures?"

Jim shrugged again. "In 25 words or less."

"Well, they're very good. Do you remember his usual style—black and white, and he experiments with perspective a lot? Switching focus from foreground to background a lot? He's done more of that. The pictures are of random people in town…" I continued describing what I'd seen, pausing only to ask him what he wanted from the buffet. He held one plate and I held one, and when both were full with vegetables and tiny quiches, we moved to a tall table to stand at so we could eat. "Here," I said, brushing his hand with a napkin.

"Thanks. You trying to tell me I have ranch dressing on my face?" he joked, wiping around his lips.

"No, it's just in case," I said with a smile.

We chatted while we ate, and then we meandered around the room, talking some to my mother and sister, and greeting a few more of my parents' friends who had come to support my father. They all knew who Jim was, and the reactions varied from morbid curiosity to discomfort to effusive praise, but he handled them all very politely, even smoothly. I wanted to kiss him, but I just squeezed his hand, allowing my touch to communicate what my face couldn't.

An hour or so after we arrived, Jim and I were standing at the photographs as I read the captions and described some that I hadn't focused on before, when I heard someone call my name. Twisting around to scan the room for the source of the vaguely familiar voice, my eyes zeroed in immediately on a face that unleashed a flood of memories in my mind, even after almost 20 years. Douglas Crandall, my high school sweetheart—for lack of a better term—was striding toward us.

"Doug?" Surprised but not displeased at the unexpected reunion, I smiled broadly.

Doug came up to me and enveloped me in a huge hug, dislodging Jim's hand from my arm in the process. He still towered over me, and as I pulled back and studied his face, I realized not much else had changed since I'd known him. His hair was still sandy blond, no sign of gray, and his eyes a piercing hazel. Dimples creased his cheeks even when he wasn't smiling, though he definitely was at the moment. If anything, he was even more handsome than he had been as the popular high school student body president. The faint lines around his eyes and a slight weathering of his skin made him look rugged and wise, a sharp contrast to the innocent and naive kid he'd been when we dated. In fact, he reminded me a little of Jim, which wasn't all that surprising—I'd always been attracted to the blond, athletic type.

"How have you been? I can't believe it's been so long!" he said, still holding me by the arms.

"Me either," I said, a little breathless from his exuberant embrace. "What a nice surprise!"

I noticed Doug's eyes flicker momentarily over to where Jim was standing slightly behind me and to the right. "I heard about your dad's exhibit and thought maybe if I was lucky, you'd be here.

"It's so good to see you—you look fantastic. I think you're even more beautiful now than you were in high school—if that's possible," he added with a wink.

For some reason, the wink reminded me that I needed to bring Jim into the conversation, so I smiled in response to his compliment, then turned and took Jim's arm. "Doug, this is my husband, Jim Dunbar. Jim, Doug Crandall is an old friend from high school."

"Jim, good to meet you," Doug said, extending his hand.

After a momentary pause, I slid my hand from Jim's sleeve up to his hand and guided it out to touch Doug's in what I hoped was a smooth gesture. I caught Doug's questioning gaze and gave him a meaningful look in return, hoping he'd get the picture without my having to explain verbally what was now probably quite obvious to him. Apparently he did, because he moved his hand to grasp Jim's and give it a firm shake.

"Nice to meet you, too," Jim said, and though his tone was relatively friendly, I knew my husband well enough to know he could sense, and didn't appreciate, Doug's ever-so-slight flirtation with me.

"What are you up to these days, Chris?" Doug asked, and I suppressed a wince at the use of the old nickname. Jim was the only one who called me that these days, and I was afraid he would be irritated by someone else using it—especially this particular someone else.

"I'm a fashion editor in New York. We live in Brooklyn. Jim's with the NYPD."

Doug's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Wow—what do you do for them?"

Jim didn't answer immediately, probably because he wasn't sure the question was directed toward him. "I'm a homicide detective," he finally answered. Without giving Doug a chance to respond, Jim continued, "What about you?"

"Nothing that exciting, I'm afraid," Doug replied, laughing. "I'm a business consultant with Ernst & Young."

"You live here in town?" Jim asked.

"No," Doug said emphatically, drawing out the word on an exhale. "I left for college and haven't come back until now, actually."

"Then how did you know about the exhibit?" I asked, puzzled.

Doug gave an embarrassed-sounding little chuckle. "Ah, I actually googled your name—I guess your maiden name now—the other day, just for kicks, and the museum website came up announcing the exhibit. I'm visiting my mom in Hartford this weekend and thought I'd take a shot that you'd be here."

That was the second time he'd made reference to hoping to find me, and I swear I felt Jim tense up next to me. "You married, Doug?" Jim asked, a little abruptly.

"Divorced," he replied. "About a year ago. Guess I put in a few too many hours when I was just starting out consulting," he added with a slight smile. "What about you two? How long have you been married?"

"Six years in October," I replied proudly, squeezing Jim's arm.

"Congratulations," Doug said. "Hey, your dad's exhibit is terrific." He glanced at Jim, and his brow creased, as if he'd just realized the significance of Jim's attending a photography exhibit.

I jumped in before he could make some inane comment, as a couple people already had. "I was just…describing some of the photos to Jim. He's familiar with my dad's work…from before he lost his sight," I explained, a little haltingly.

Doug nodded his understanding, but thankfully didn't pry. Instead, he gestured to the small bar set up at one end of the room. "Would either of you like a drink?" he asked.

"Jim?" I asked. "They just have white and red wine, I think," I added, craning my neck to confirm what I remembered from a quick glance earlier in the evening.

"I wouldn't mind a glass of the red," Jim said.

"And I'd love some white," I told Doug. "But I don't think you'll be able to carry all three. Why don't I come with you?"

"No, that's all right," Doug started to protest, and to my surprise, Jim interrupted him.

"It's fine," he said. "I'll be here when you get back—I promise," he added wryly.

"I'll just be a minute," I said, rubbing his arm reassuringly.

"Okay," he said, smiling faintly.

As we headed toward the bar, Doug brought his arm up to my back and rested his hand lightly there. "It's so good to see you, Chris. I've thought about you a lot over the years."

I smiled, a little uncomfortable at his familiar touch. "That's nice," I said vaguely. "One red wine, and one white," I said to the bartender then, glad to have an excuse to divert the conversation.

Doug stepped forward. "I'll have a glass of red," he said, pulling out his wallet. "I'm buying," he told me.

"No, you don't have to do that," I protested.

"Please," he countered. "It's the least I can do."

"Thank you," I said, smiling up at him. He wore a soft gray sweater and black dress pants, still obviously a sharp dresser. Another thing he had in common with Jim, I realized.

The bartender handed us our glasses, and the two men exchanged money. "So…how did you meet Jim?" Doug asked, pulling me gently away from the bar. I looked over at Jim, who hadn't moved a muscle. He looked as he had at Clay's party, awkward and alone. He'd found a corner of the exhibit wall, and was holding tightly onto it, I could see even from here. A few people milled around him, examining the photographs, but nobody seemed to be engaging him in conversation.

"Christie?" Startled, I looked back up at Doug. "Sorry," I said, smiling. "Um…oh, some mutual friends introduced us. I wasn't too interested in dating a cop, but Jim charmed me on our first date."

"And…if you don't mind my asking, how does he…he's still a cop? Even though…" Doug waved his glass in front of his face, indicating his eyes.

I nodded, not wanting to get into the details of the struggle Jim had had to go through to rejoin the department. "He got shot during a robbery, and just went back to work a few months ago. He's worked really hard to…adapt."

Doug whistled softly and shook his head. "I can't imagine," he said. "Must've been hard on you, too," he added, gazing sympathetically down at me.

I flashed a little smile and shrugged. "We got through it," I said simply.

"Do you have children?"

I shook my head. "No—we've…we've both been focused on our careers," I said with a tight smile.

Doug nodded. "I know how that is, trust me."

I glanced nervously back over at Jim, and was glad to see my brother-in-law, Wesley, walk up to Jim and clap him on the shoulder, greeting him. Relieved, I turned my attention back to Doug.

"So, do you ever get to New York? We'd love to have you for dinner."

"Sure, I'm there at least a couple times a year," he replied. "Let me give you my card." He dug in his pocket and pulled one out, pressing it into my hand. "I'd love to see you again. Unfortunately, I'm flying back to London tomorrow. If you're ever on the other side of the Atlantic, give me a call, okay?"

"Of course," I said. Nothing he'd said had been inappropriate, but there was something in his body language, and his tone of voice, that seemed to asking an unspoken question that I had no intention of answering. I still found him very attractive, but I'd meant it when I told Jim that I'd never consider having an affair. Especially not now, I admitted to myself.

We chatted for what could only have been a few more minutes, until I suddenly became aware that my glass of wine was empty, and I was still holding Jim's full one. My head whipped around to where Jim was, and he was standing alone again. I turned back to Doug. "I-I need to get this back to Jim," I said, holding up the glass and stuttering slightly.

"Oh…right," Doug replied smoothly, with the hint of a smile. "I guess it's easy to lose track of time with an old friend. Listen, I need to be going anyway. It was wonderful to see you, Christie. Really." He bent down and brushed my cheek with his lips, holding my arm for a moment.

"You, too, Doug. Thanks for coming." I smiled warmly, then subtly removed myself from his grip. "Take care of yourself."

With that, I set my empty glass on a nearby table and turned to head back to Jim, who must have heard or smelled me coming. Crossing his arms, he shifted position and his face tensed up. Before he could speak, I pressed the glass against his hand, saying, "I'm sorry, sweetie. I saw Wes over here a minute ago and thought you were okay."

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" he asked, with an edge to his voice. He took the wine and downed half of it in one gulp. "Where's Dougie?"

"Jimmy," I said in a warning tone. "He had to go. We were just catching up – I'm sorry I was gone so long."

Jim shrugged, smacking his lips angrily after another drink of wine. "No problem—I'm used to it by now, don't worry."

My eyes narrowed with hurt and irritation. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what that means," Jim said sharply.

"You know, I seem to remember asking you to bring your cane."

"Yeah, like the cane would've…never mind, just forget it," he snapped, finishing off the wine. "Here," he said, thrusting the glass at me.

I grabbed it and stalked over to set it on a table, then went back to him. "You're jealous," I told him.

His eyes widened, and then he made a dismissive gesture with his mouth. "Listen, I'm tired of standing here beside a bunch of pictures I can't see, drinking bad wine, and listening to some guy tell my wife he's still in love with her. If that makes me jealous, then I guess I'm guilty."

"You're being ridiculous. Doug was just…it's been 15 years, Jim."

"You heard him—you're more beautiful now than you were then," he said, and I smiled.

"And I'm married…to a wonderful man," I replied softly.

"To a blind man," he added, sounding bitter.

"So what?" I asked. "This is silly, Jimmy. I'll probably never see him again."

Jim shrugged. "Fine. Can we go now?"

I looked around the room. The crowd was diminishing, but the reception was still going strong. I caught my mother's eye, and she said something to my father, then left his side and came over to us. "Are you two having fun?" she asked.

"It's great," I told her. "But it's been a long day.Would you mind ifwe took your car and left a little early?"

Her face fell, and I knew she was disappointed. Her gaze flickered from mine to Jim, and finally she replied, "Of course. I can ride home with your father. Let me go get the keys."

"Let's go say goodbye to my dad," I suggested. "Here," I added, nudging him with my elbow.

Jim didn't take my arm. "Where's Lisa?" he asked instead.

I sighed and looked around, spotting my niece holding onto her dad's hand as he talked to another man in the doorway to the hall. "She's with Wes. Why?"

"Could you get her?" he asked.

I opened my mouth to protest, but decided it was easier not to argue. I took a few steps and called out her name. The little girl swiveled around, then dropped her dad's hand and ran over to me. "Hi, Aunt Christie," she said.

"Lisa?" Jim asked, taking a step forward. "Want to practice guiding me some more?"

"Sure, Uncle Jimmy!" she answered happily, going over to him and grabbing his hand. "You put your hand here—" she turned around and moved it to her shoulder, "—and…where are we going?"

Jim smiled. "Out to the car. I'll meet you there," he said, turning his head toward me.

"What about my dad?" I asked.

"I'll see him at home. Let's go, Lis."

I watched them go, feeling my anger rise up to the surface. Suddenly, I remembered my earlier words to my mother, and they took on a whole new meaning: It was going to be a loooong weekend.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Weekend in the Country

Rating: PG-13 for mature themes and language

Spoilers: Set right after "Dance With Me"

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters belong to Steven Bochco Productions.

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews and emails, everyone. Very, very much appreciated. Think of them as motivating me to write more, and keep them coming. Constructive criticism always welcome. Sorry this took so long - been a bit stuck for a while. I hope the next one will be easier. Thanks to those of you who gave me early feedback and encouragement on this one. Enjoy.

UPDATE: Thank you, shmeep, for bringing to my attention the woeful fact that I changed from first person to third person narrative in this chapter! Silly me. I've rewritten it to reflect Jim's first-person POV so that it meshes better with the other chapters. I might have missed a "he" or "him" here or there—feel free to bring those to my attention if you so desire.

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****Chapter 3**

_(Jim's POV)_

Even though no alarm sounded and no beeper went off, I awoke at seven the next morning. I stayed in bed for a while, listening to Christie's steady breathing next to me, thinking about the previous evening's events. We had both been quiet on the ride home, the encounter with Doug and my early exit hanging heavy between us. Christie's parents had arrived home shortly after we had, and though conversation over strawberry shortcake and coffee had been friendly enough, the feeling that my father-in-law was angry at me about something had only grown stronger. Not only had I been reading people for years as a detective, but I'd also had to learn to rely on what people's voices revealed to me about them, and his had clearly revealed the tension simmering in every word he said to me. I had finally excused myself, pleading exhaustion again, and gone upstairs. By the time Christie had followed, I'd been asleep.

Slipping from the bed, I thought about showering, but didn't want to risk waking anyone so early, so I decided to put it off for the time being. I'd worn a tee shirt and pajama bottoms to bed, so I knew I was decent to leave the bedroom. As soon as I stepped into the hallway, the welcome scent of brewing coffee greeted me. I listened intently as I moved down the staircase, gripping the banister, but even as I turned into the hall and went toward the kitchen, I couldn't detect any movement, and didn't sense a presence, as I often did when someone else was in the room. Maybe they had a timer on the coffeemaker.

I set about the methodical task of finding a coffee mug and maybe, if I was really lucky, some creamer. Though I remembered the layout of the house well enough from years of visits, I'd long forgotten where things were in the kitchen—if I'd ever known. I'd made my way through the cabinet directly over the coffeemaker and was rifling carefully through the next one when I heard the soft but distinct clink of a mug being set down on the table across the room. Startled, I turned. "Is someone there?"

After a moment, I heard someone clearing his throat, then, "It's me, Jim. Just having my morning coffee."

Christie's father. Why the hell hadn't he said anything? Suppressing a flash of anger, I managed a smile. "Jeff—sorry, uh, for snooping. I didn't hear you over there—you shoulda said something," I scolded the older man gently.

Another short and awkward silence. "I suppose I should have. I wasn't thinking. I'm used to enjoying the first cup alone, since Diane's a late riser—Christie's the same way, isn't she?"

I nodded. "Yeah, she is. Uh, am I getting warm here—" I jerked a thumb at the open cabinet behind me—"with the mug search?"

"Two more to the right."

I counted two knobs over, and my hand closed over a mug on the first shelf. "Thanks," I said, still irritated that Jeff hadn't said anything while I searched in vain. "Is there creamer or half-and-half somewhere?" Usually I just took it black, but the brew smelled so strong, I was thinking it might be wise to soften it a little on an empty stomach.

"Half-and-half in the fridge."

I moved cautiously toward the coffeemaker, then worked my way down from the top of the appliance to avoid burning my hands on the glass carafe. After I'd safely poured a cup, I took it to the end of the counter nearest the fridge, and opened the door. "Ah…what am I looking for here—a carton or…?"

"Yeah, it's in the door…uh, about shoulder level."

After a little fumbling, I found what I thought might be the half-and-half, and confirmed my suspicion by holding the open carton up to my nose. _Hmmm…where would the silverware be?_ I wondered as I poured the cream into my coffee. At home I might've let the liquid run over my fingers into the mug so I'd know better how much I was pouring, but in front of my father-in-law, I thought it best just to estimate.

"Silverware drawer's next to the sink…to the left," Jeff said, apparently understanding the reason for my hesitation.

"Thanks." I returned the half-and-half to the fridge, found a spoon, then carried my mug to the table and sat down. "Sorry to interrupt your morning."

No response, and I figured—hoped—my father-in-law had shrugged or made some other dismissive gesture. I stifled a sigh. I knew certain tips for dealing with blind people weren't exactly intuitive, but it seemed like Jeff wasn't making much of an effort. I decided to try again. "The exhibit seemed to go over well last night."

"Uh-huh," Jeff murmured.

Although I hadn't heard it before, a familiar rustle suddenly alerted me to the fact that Jeff was reading a newspaper. "Is that the Times?" I asked.

"Nah," Jeff exhaled dismissively. "This is just the local paper. I read the Times online—too expensive to have it delivered."

"The Times has a great website," I said, eager to seize on a common interest. "I can usually get through the headlines at work in the morning, with my first cup of coffee. But now that we have DSL at home, I read as much as I want on the weekends. As long as Christie doesn't complain that I'm on the computer too much," he added with a chuckle. "Using a screenreader, even at top speed—which sounds like Alvin the Chipmunk, by the way—is pretty time-consuming."

Realizing that I was rambling a bit, I stopped myself, but all I got in response was a disinterested "Mmmm…" from the man sitting across from me.

Frustrated, I set my mug down, twirling it around on the tabletop, then shrugged my shoulders, cracking my neck. I drummed my fingers with my free hand, then slid the same hand along the table out of habit, feeling the smooth wood. Probably oak, based on the grain. It was a sharp contrast to the cheap, nicked fake-wood Formica of the tables in the squad that my hands were so used to.

"Jeff," I said, wanting to make sure I had his full attention. When I got no response, I plowed on. "Listen, is there…is there something you and I need to talk about?"

Again, my words were met with silence. Finally, Jeff replied blandly, "I don't know what you mean."

I clearly understood that the rustling of the newspaper was intended to signal the end of the matter, but I was damned if I was going to go back to pretending that nothing was wrong. I took a sip of coffee. "I just meant that…you're obviously upset with me about something. You've _been_ upset with me about something for a long time. And I think we should talk about it."

More silence. I opened my mouth to try again, but was cut off by his father-in-law's curt reply. "What exactly do you think I'm upset with you for, Jim?"

I let a breath out slowly through my nose. Though I couldn't read Jeff's expression, I didn't think that fact put me at much of a disadvantage. I'd learned out of necessity this past year that there were four types of people in the world: those who could keep emotion out of their faces, those who could keep it out of their voices, those who could do neither, and those who could do both. Unfortunately, I knew from when I could see that my father-in-law was definitely in the latter category. Regardless, nothing could be done about it. "I, uh, I heard a rumor that you don't agree with my decision to go back to work as a cop. Is that what's been bothering you?"

"The police department offered you a very generous job, teaching at the academy."

I sighed, rubbing my finger along the rim of my coffee cup. Realizing that my face was angled down toward the table, I lifted it so that if I could see, I'd have been staring my father-in-law in the face. "I'm not a teacher, Jeff. I'm a homicide detective."

"And I'm a physician, and I'll be the first to champion the abilities of disabled people. But one thing blind people can't do? They can't be cops," Jeff countered, and I could hear the carefully suppressed anger edging into his voice. "I don't intend any offense—I really don't—but your career as a police officer should've ended at that bank last year."

I forced a smile. "It's not like I'm a beat cop, Jeff—I'm a detective. And you know what else? Blind people obviously _can_ be cops—I'm living proof."

"Only because you forced the issue," Jeff said curtly.

Suppressing a desire to spew some choice curse words, I counted slowly to ten instead, employing one of the strategies Dr. Galloway had taught me for those times when my temper started to get the better of me. "I 'forced the issue' because I thought I could still do the job," I said finally. "And I guess I was hoping that maybe my family would support me."

Suddenly, I couldn't sit still any longer, so I pushed back from the table, grabbed the mug, and started toward the sink. When I got there, I poured the rest of my coffee out, and set the mug in the stainless steel basin. With my back still turned, I snapped, "You know, I had a hard enough time convincing the department I could do the job. That I could still be a cop. I really don't want to have to stand here and convince you."

"Maybe you _can_ do it," Jeff replied. "But you _shouldn't_. You got shot in the line of duty, and now you're back out there again like nothing happened! Don't you think you're even more likely to get injured again—or maybe killed this time? I think it's selfish of you, if you want to know the truth. Didn't you think about Christie at all in this?"

I turned and took a few steps toward the table, reaching out for the refrigerator to orient myself. "I would be no good to Christie if I wasn't a cop. It's all I know how to be besides a soldier, and I'm pretty sure the Army wouldn't take me back at this point."

"That's a pretty limited attitude, Jim. People learn new skills every day."

"I don't _want_ to learn new skills, except the ones I have to to do my job." I took a deep breath and another step in the direction of his voice. "Listen, Jeff, I understand where you're coming from. A lot of people still don't think I can do this. But Christie and I talked a lot about this when I first decided to try to get my job back. And she's supported me from the beginning. Doesn't _that_ count for anything?"

Jeff muttered something incomprehensible under his breath. "Maybe Christie didn't have all of the facts at hand," he said, with a slightly ominous tone to his voice, as if he was leaving something unsaid.

"What's that supposed to—?"

My brow furrowing, I started to ask Jeff to explain himself but was interrupted by light footsteps entering the kitchen, then a bright "Good morning!" that I recognized as my mother-in-law.

I closed my mouth and smiled grimly. "'Morning," I said, turning toward the sound of her voice.

"Did you sleep well?" Diane asked, and again I could smell her floral perfume as she moved toward me.

I desperately wished Diane would leave the room again, so we could finish our conversation, but it wasn't going to happen, so I finally answered, "Fine, thanks. Is Christie up?"

"I heard the shower running, so she must be. You have time to take a shower before breakfast too, if you want, Jim."

I stood still for a moment, then nodded, reaching a hand out in search of the island counter. "Okay. Thanks." My heart still beating faster than usual from the tense exchange, I left the room and continued upstairs. The shower was off, but I could hear Christie moving around inside the bathroom, so I went into the bedroom and dug into my duffel bag for the jeans and polo shirt I'd brought to wear that day, plus underwear and socks.

When Christie came into the room, I asked abruptly, "Is there soap and shampoo in there?"

"Yeah," she said. "Good morning to you, too," she added lightly.

I sighed, biting my lip. My back still to her, I added, "Good morning." I carefully folded my clothes over my arm and turned to go to the bathroom.

"Hey," Christie said, intercepting me with a hand on my arm. "You okay?"

Belatedly, I realized my face still bore the traces of emotion from the heated conversation with Jeff. I struggled to relax my expression, forcing a smile. "I'm fine."

"I think I've heard _that_ before," she said calmly, with a hint of frustration at my vague answer.

There was no way I was going to tell her how Jeff hadn't spoken up when I first entered the kitchen. Instead I snapped, "Your dad doesn't think I should be a cop. No—he doesn't think I _can_ be a cop."

Christie sighed. "He said that?"

"Yes, he said that," I repeated angrily. "Do you—do you think it was selfish of me to go back to work? And be honest with me."

"Selfish, how?"

"I don't know—I guess not considering what was best for you."

"Of course not," Christie said softly. "I knew you were a cop when I married you, and that didn't change at the bank that day. And what's best for me is for you to be happy."

Almost despite myself, I felt my anger melt away at her words, and I reached a hand up to her cheek. "I love you."

I felt her smile against my fingertips, and couldn't help but smile in return. I didn't get to experience a full-watt Christie smile very often these days. "You don't do that enough, you know," she said softly.

"What?"

"Smile," she replied. "Go take a shower. I'll get Mom to make waffles. And Jimmy…don't worry about my dad. He's just overprotective, and he hasn't had enough time to adjust to the new you. None of them have. Just give it some time, okay?"

I inhaled deeply, letting the air seep out through my nose before answering. "Okay." Bending my head, I planted a quick kiss on her lips, then headed for the bathroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Weekend in the Country

**Disclaimer: **Blind Justice belongs to Steven Bochco Productions. No copyright infringement intended.

**Rating: **PG-13.

**Spoilers: **Set right after "Dance With Me."  
**Author's Note: **Sorry this one took me so long—don't know why this scene was so hard to come up with. I hope the next one will come more easily. I wanted to finish their stroll in this chapter, but I'm heading out for vacation and was encouraged to post what I had!  Enjoy, and remember – feedback is much appreciated.

**Chapter 4**

_(Christie's POV)_

I dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and a soft pink, short-sleeved top, and ran a comb through my tangled hair. Scooping it up into a careless bun and securing it with a clip was by far the easiest way to deal with it. Then I headed downstairs to make conversation with my parents and help fix breakfast while Jim showered.

Breakfast consisted of my mom's whole-wheat waffles, along with bacon and fresh fruit, and afterwards, my mom, dad, and I sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee. Half my attention was focused on what my mother was saying to me, and half on Jim's phone conversation in the living room. Granted, it was the first time we'd ever left the dog with someone else, but I was still having a hard time seeing why Jim felt the need to call Karen and check up on Hank during a trip that was going to last less than 48 hours in all.

I looked up as my dad pushed back from the table and started gathering empty plates. "So, did you guys have anything in mind for today?" I asked brightly.

My dad didn't look at me, clearing his throat instead. He turned to carry his load to the sink, and my mom shot me an apologetic look. "Your father is going golfing," she said. "He has a regular tee time at 10 on Saturdays."

"Dad, could you maybe _not_ spend the afternoon golfing after we drove all the way up here to visit you?" I asked. I could feel my brow furrow as I tilted my head, trying to convey my displeasure through narrowed eyes.

"I'm sorry, Christine," my dad offered lamely. "But we didn't know for sure if you were coming until the last minute, and it would've been rude to cancel at that point."

"Right," I snapped. "God forbid you be _rude_." My meaning was clear, and my dad held my gaze, his expression changing from defensiveness to slight irritation. More softly, I continued, an imploring note creeping into my voice, "Could you at least invite Jim to go with you?"

My dad scoffed condescendingly, then said in a low voice, "Christine, I don't think he would enjoy—"

"It's not about that," I interrupted. "It's about going golfing with your friends and not asking him to go with you."

"Christine…" My dad trailed off, apparently unable to come up with another argument against agreeing to my request.

"Jeff, maybe you should ask Jim to come along. He and Wesley would enjoy spending some time together."

"Wes isn't coming," my father said, coming back to the table and putting his hand on the back of one of the chairs.

"That's right, Ethan has a soccer game at noon," my mom remembered. "We could go to that, if you and Jim were interested," she said to me. "And Sarah and Wes invited us for a cookout at their house afterwards."

"Sounds good to me." All of us turned in surprise at Jim's voice. Looking casual—and sexy—in a slightly wrinkled black polo shirt and faded blue jeans, he made his way over to us from the living room doorway, one hand lightly tracing the kitchen countertops. He'd apparently tucked his cell phone into one of his pockets, because it was nowhere to be seen, and I knew better than to think that he'd put it down somewhere in the living room. "Been too long since I had one of Wes' hamburgers."

"How's Hank?" I asked.

Using my voice as an indication of where we were, Jim stopped just short of me, so I took another step closer to him. When I laid my hand on his arm, he moved to put his arm around me, an affectionate gesture that I appreciated. To answer my question, he shrugged, smiling faintly. "Karen says he's good—but we need to stop by the market on the way to her place tomorrow and replace the Boston cream pie that he helped himself to last night. She left it in a box on the kitchen counter."

"Ahh…" I said knowingly. "If he can smell it and get to it, he thinks it's his," I explained to my parents.

"I thought he had all this training," my mother said, surprised.

Jim chuckled. "He is well trained—but when he's not on the job, he can get into as much trouble as the next dog."

Seeing the expression on my mother's face, I smiled encouragingly, hastily adding, "But as long as there's no food out to tempt him, he's an angel. Right, Jimmy?"

Jim paused as he thought about what I was trying to do, then nodded. "Right. I did a regular obedience class with him, too, so he doesn't tear things up around the house."

"So, Jim, Christie was saying she wanted to take you down to see—look at—ah, visit the roses," Diane said, stumbling over her words.

I sighed. Lisa had done it right when she just asked Jim if he wanted to see the picture she'd drawn. But no, adults had to mess it up, complicate things by thinking too much. But Jim had to deal with this type of thing every day, I suspected, and knew exactly how to handle it. "Sure, let's go see them," he replied.

He squeezed me gently, then stepped away, holding me at arm's length. "I'm going to go put some shoes on," he said. "Do you need anything from upstairs?"

I shook my head, then voiced the negative reply. "No, I'm ready." I shot a look at my father, then cut my gaze to Jim's retreating figure, with the clear message that I wanted my father to speak up and tell Jim he was going golfing. But he just broke eye contact with me, and quickly turned away. My mom went to the sink to finish cleaning up from breakfast, so I took the opportunity to follow my father into the living room.

"Daddy, we need to talk," I began.

My father huffed. "It's just a round of golf, love. I'll be back for the cookout this afternoon."

"Not about that," I said brusquely, crossing my arms. "First of all, you didn't say a word just now. Jim might not have even known you were standing there."

"I didn't have anything to say, Christine. What would you have me say? 'Hi, Jim, by the way, I'm here'? Wouldn't that embarrass him?"

"Dad, I've asked you before to please speak up when he's in the room. It's not a difficult request. You're a very smart man, and I'm sure you can figure out a way to work yourself into the conversation."

My father held out his hands in a placating gesture. "You're right—I'll try to do better."

"Thank you. And there's something else…" I began, then hesitated. I didn't want him to think Jim had betrayed some guy code by telling me about their conversation this morning. "I know you're upset about Jim going back to work," I said vaguely. "But it's a fait accompli, Dad. He's made his decision, and I support him. So I hope you can make your peace with it and move forward in your relationship with him. I know he wants that."

As I spoke, I could see my father's face harden and become impassive. My father was such a reasonable, measured personality that I was surprised at the obvious depth of his displeasure with my husband. Jim was absolutely right that they'd never been exactly buddy-buddy, but my dad had always done his best to treat Jim with respect, if not the same warmth and camaraderie that he shared with Wesley, who just happened to also be a physician and to share a practice with him.

"I love you, Christine, and I have your best interests at heart," was his eventual reply, but his voice was cold, and I knew I wasn't going to get him to relent. Not that morning, anyway.

"I know you do. And my best interest is to have my dad and my husband getting along," I told him firmly.

By the time Jim came back downstairs, my mom and I were waiting by the front door. "Love the shoes," I teased him. Just peeking out from under his longish jeans were a pair of simple black leather slip-ons with rubber soles—by all accounts, the trendy new thing for metrosexuals. Rugged enough for outdoor wear, but sleek enough for clubbing. I'd picked them up on a whim at a wholesaler, since Jim had been complaining about not having any casual shoes except sneakers. I was half-surprised that he hadn't told me to return them. But he was probably just grateful not to have to try to pick out shoes himself. Clothes shopping was something the two of us hadn't done much of since the shooting. It was just unavoidably awkward—for him, probably because he had to rely on me so much, and hated being dependent, and for me? I wasn't sure why it was awkward, actually. I enjoyed Jim really _needing _me for something, so that wasn't it. But…I was also used to him being so in control and sure of himself—even since he'd lost his sight. But the first time I had to help him find the type of white tee shirts he liked, it was strangely like having a son instead of a husband.

Jim snorted in response to my flippant remark. "Hey, I'm just glad I'm not the one who has to look at them," he tossed back.

I giggled, and rolled my eyes at my mom, who managed a smile despite a tiny wince at Jim's self-mocking humor. I was actually pretty excited that he'd started poking fun at the blindness every now and again, because to me it represented a new level of acceptance. "They look _good_," I insisted. "Very stylish." Without missing a beat, I turned and grabbed his cane from the corner in which it still leaned from the previous day, and casually pressed it into his hand. "Here—you might need this. The ground is kind of uneven in some places."

"That's what I've got you for, baby," he said, reaching for me and pulling me to him with a flourish, ending with a dramatic kiss.

I laughed again. _Was he in a mood, or what? _The cloud of irritation that had hung over him after the early morning conversation with my dad had suddenly—and happily—lifted. "I'll keep an eye out, but I want the cane to back me up, since it's rough terrain out there."

"Okay," he agreed easily, and I nodded to my mom, who opened the door and held it for us, then followed behind us and shut it. I let Jim take the lead, figuratively speaking, letting him figure out how he wanted to travel. He ended up lightly grasping my arm but also walking more beside than behind me, and sweeping the cane in a small arc in front of him. Not great technique, but it worked for this particular situation. He found the porch steps before I even got there, and went down smoothly, then located an uneven place in the sidewalk and navigated that, too.

"Has it been as warm here as it has in the city this spring, Diane?" Jim asked as we turned off the sidewalk and headed down the driveway. It was a perfectly gorgeous day—sunny, with a few scattered clouds, maybe mid-seventies. Glancing at my husband, his face slightly upturned toward the sun, I closed my eyes briefly, and immediately noticed a slight breeze and the loud hum of some insect nearby, neither of which I'd been aware of before.

"I don't know—how warm has it been in the city?" she quipped. It took a second for Jim to realize she was teasing, and when he chuckled, she answered, "I'd say we've definitely had a summer-like spring this year. I've enjoyed it—it's not the kind of heat that makes you want to stay inside and turn on the air conditioning."

"Just the kind that makes you wish you didn't have to wear a suit to work every day," Jim said with a cute half-smile, looking over in the direction of my mom's voice.

"I'm sure," she sympathized.

While we were walking, Jim had gradually moved his hand from encircling my arm to just resting his on the outside of my elbow, and now he moved lower and took my hand, swinging it loosely with his between us as we walked. Sometimes he trusted me to guide him like that, but that was only when the ground beneath was smooth and obstacle-free, and there weren't a lot of people around.

I was even more glad he had the cane a few moments later, when we angled left off the pavement into the uneven yard. "We're almost there," I told him. The pink and red roses, in full bloom, wound up and around a long split-rail fence that ran all the way to the road.

"I'm _already_ there," he replied. "They smell great, Diane."

I glanced at my mom, and saw how happy the comment made her. "Too bad I didn't inherit your green thumb," I said.

"That's for sure," Jim echoed, smiling. "Didn't you kill a cactus once?"

"Very funny," I said, reaching over to punch him lightly in the shoulder. My knuckles bounced harmlessly off his muscle, which was hard as a rock, thanks to weightlifting in the precinct gym. "That cactus had some kind of disease when we got it."

At that moment, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the ground in front of me, I suddenly stumbled as I stepped into a small dip in the earth. Instinctively, Jimmy slid his hand up my arm and caught me in his sure embrace. "Whoa, steady there, sailor." Then, since he couldn't resist, he added, "Aren't you the one who _can_ watch where she's going?"

"I _can_—that doesn't mean I always _do_," I reminded him, patting his arm and smiling. "Thanks for the catch."

"No problem."

When we arrived at the fence, I took Jim's hand and touched it to a particularly large, magenta bloom to show him where the flowers were. He folded up his cane and stuck it under one arm, then reached out both hands to explore.

"Be careful—they may be pretty, but the thorns are sharp," my mom warned. I was sure she'd said that many times before to my nephew and niece, and I shot her a look that said, _Don't coddle. _

Jim laughed. "I'll take my chances," he replied, squatting to stick his nose into one bloom. I knew exactly what he really meant—the roses wouldn't be pretty to him unless he could feel them. And I guessed that the occasional prick of a thorn would just make the experience more real and alive to him.

As Jim slowly moved down the fence, my mom and I stood chatting. At one point, I looked over toward the neighboring property across a large field, and was surprised to see what looked like a riding stables and ring next to the stately old farmhouse that had been there since long before my parents' home. "What's going on over there?"

"The owner passed away and left the property to a religious group, and they've started a non-profit therapeutic riding facility," my mother replied. "They're going to cater to riders with disabilities. The whole town has been involved in fundraising, and they're going to open by the end of the summer."

I scrunched up my nose in distaste. "Aren't you worried about the smell and noise and…everything?"

My mom smiled. "No, honey. They're far enough away that it won't bother us. And it's such a worthwhile cause."

"I suppose," I said reluctantly, nonetheless imagining a crowded parking lot and smelly horses traipsing all over my mom's beautiful roses.

After another minute, I went over to Jim, who was discreetly sucking on a finger. I giggled. "Every rose has its thorn," I whispered against his arm.

He took his finger out of his mouth and treated me to of his cute facial shrugs. "Small price to pay."

"You ready to head back?" I asked. 

"Sure," he said, shaking out his cane and taking my arm. "Unless you want to wander around a little."

"Should I take that to mean you _do_ want to wander around a little?" I asked with a smile. Sometimes Jimmy was such a typical guy. Well, okay, _all_ the time.

"We could go down by the creek," my mom suggested.

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I don't know, it's kind of…that path is pretty rough, isn't it?"

"Come on, let's risk it," Jim said. "I'm sure I can catch you again if you have trouble."

My mom and I laughed, and I gave in easily, not wanting to stifle Jim's sense of adventure. "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you," I told him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Weekend in the Country

**Disclaimer: **Blind Justice belongs to Steven Bochco Productions. No copyright infringement intended.

**Rating: **PG-13.

**Spoilers: **Set right after "Dance With Me."

**Author's Notes: **Many thanks to shmeep, who helped me immensely with her thoughtful critique of this draft chapter, which led to a significant revision that I hope has improved both the focus and quality of the story. Sorry for the length between postings—bear with me! Enjoy and please take a moment to leave feedback. Thanks.

**

* * *

****Chapter 5**

_(Jim's POV)_

I was a little irritated by Christie's implication that I was too incapacitated by the blindness to walk a simple wooded path, even it was rocky and uneven. But I tried to keep it to myself as we turned from the roses and headed back up the driveway. I was determined to keep things light and enjoyable this weekend—and Christie's father had already made that more difficult than I'd imagined, so I definitely wasn't going to turn Christie's goof into a full-blown discussion about the capabilities of blind people. That would just end up making all of us uncomfortable, and we'd already had that discussion many times anyway. The fact was, it was still a learning process—for both of us, and I tended to give Christie the benefit of the doubt, since shejust as oftenerred on the side of _over_estimating my abilities. Besides, we hadn't been out in nature at all during the past year, so her uncertainty was even more excusable.

"You okay? You're being kind of quiet." Christie's soft voice brought me back to the present with a jolt.

I realized that even though I was deep in thought, part of my brain was also intently focused on my surroundings, trying to get a sense of where I was by smell and hearing and even my memories of how things were situated. I should've remembered the path down to the creek that ran through the western part of the Sullivans' property…but I didn't. I had a vague idea of where we were, but I had honestly never paid that much attention. I was a city boy, born and bred, and had no patience for the bugs and dirt and leaves that one inevitably encountered in the country. Granted, my in-laws hardly lived in the boondocks, but it was decidedly more rural than any other place I'd spent any amount of time in. And in the seven or so years I'd been visiting them, I'd been content to stay inside and crack open a beer and watch a football game.

Of course, that was when I could view the roses from afar, and could tell my mother-in-law that they were very pretty from where I stood on the front porch. Never had the slightest desire to go _smell_ them. Today, though, I was actually eager to experience the great outdoors in all its glory. _You don't know what you got till it's gone._ How true that phrase was. I wish I had appreciated all the sights around me when I'd had the chance. Now I was figuring out other ways to experience things—which is one reason I'd suggested wandering around a little—but it was definitely more of a challenge.

Remembering that I still hadn't answered Christie's question, I shook my head a little and forced a smile. "I was just….are there horses around here somewhere?"

"Yes, there are," Diane said with a bit of wonder in her voice. "How did you know that?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Thought I smelled them. Reminded me of the races I used to go to with my…when I was a kid."

"See, I told you the smell would be terrible," Christie said, sounding irritated. I assumed she was talking to her mother, because I could hear the change in the sound of her voice as she turned her head away.

"Christine, Jim can probably smell things that the rest of us can't. And we don't spend much time all the way out here anyway. So stop worrying," Diane said sharply.

"What's going on?" I asked, confused by the turn of the conversation.

As we made our way across the large backyard and into the woods at the far edge, Diane explained about the riding center next door. "It's just for disabled kids?" I asked.

"No, I think they'll serve everyone," Diane answered, "but the therapeutic services will be woven into everything they do. It's really been a community effort."

"Sounds like a good thing to get behind. Even if it does smell," I added.Diane giggled in response,but Christie didn't. I loved my wife, but sometimes her Type A personality got on my nerves, and I wished she could just relax and laugh about things once in a while. More like Karen was, I realized. Though Karen was probably like that because she was a cop. The profession tended to teach perspective on a grand scale. More than the world of high fashion, in any case.

As we walked, I noticed the air around us cooling, and knew that we had left the meadow behind and gone far enough into the woods to be completely shaded from the sun. The smell changed too, from grass to the damp, rich scentof earth and leaves. "Okay, sweetie, we're in the woods now," Christie said.

I took a calming breath, and slowed to a stop. "Christie, do me a favor, okay? Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Just do it," I said. "You too, Diane."

I waited a moment, then said, "Okay. Where's the sun?"

They both mumbled versions of, "I don't know."

"Right, because the trees are covering it," I said, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. "A minute ago, we were walking in the sun, and now we're not. What else can you tell me about where we are?"

A beat of silence, and Christie says, "I hear birds…and maybe crickets?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "Crickets like cool, damp places, like the woods. What else?"

"Smells like rain," Diane said. "Kind of…mossy."

"Okay, we're done," I said, and squeezed Christie's arms gently to start her moving again.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy," she said softly.

"Don't be," I replied curtly. "I wasn't trying to...I just wanted to show you I already knew we were in the woods."

"I'm sure people underestimate you a lot, Jim," my mother-in-law said from behind us.

I shrugged and frowned a little, then turned my head to address her. "It's not a big deal."

"I think it is," Christie said, her voice still low and contrite. "I wish you would show me more about how you see things more often. Maybe then I'd understand better."

Though I was pretty sure I had hidden my irritation from my mother-in-law, my wife knew me well enough to sense how I was feeling, and her typical defensiveness had sprung up. I shrugged again, not wanting to get into an argument. "I'll keep that in mind."

We walked a little further, and then Christie said, "The path is getting narrower, Jimmy—I don't think it's wide enough for us to keep walking side-by-side like this."

I paused a half step, and moved slightly behind her into a more traditional guiding position. But I kept the cane off to my right and moving along the ground to feel out the terrain. "Better?"

"Yes," she answered. "Okay, there's a big dip coming up, and some rocks. It's going to get kind of steep."

"You know, a blind man hiked the Appalachian Trail," I said, feeling my hackles rise again.

"Really?"

"By himself?" My mother-in-law and wife exclaimed at the same time.

"Does it matter?" I replied, answering Christie's question.

A pause, and then she answered, "No, I guess not."

I decided to let the subject drop, and as soon as quiet descended among us again, I heard the faint gurgle of running water ahead and to the left. "Do you hear that?" I asked them.

"What?" Diane asked. "Oh—is that the stream? We're almost there."

The sound grew steadily louder, until I could finally sense that we'd come into a bit of a clearing, so the path was open to the stream, with no trees blocking the sound—or the view, presumably. "Sounds..._bigger_ than I remember," I remarked.

"We had a lot of snow and rain this winter, so it's pretty full right now," Diane replied. "You might've seen it in fall or early winter before, when it's a lot lower."

"Can we get down to the water?" I asked Christie.

"Um...I think so. Be careful—there are some branches and it's steep," she warned.

Feeling the way with my cane and stepping cautiously, we made it down to the water's edge, where the ground became increasingly soft and squishy beneath our feet. "Are we there?" I asked.

Christie affirmed that we were, so I folded my cane, handed it to Christie, and squatted, sticking my hands out and down until they made contact with the water. I felt like a little kid, but didn't care. It was one thing to hear the rushing water, and quite another to feel it flowing over my hands. I almost suggested we take our shoes off and go wading, but I thought Christie might have a heart attack, and I didn't much feel like taking a mid-morning swim, so I refrained. But not by much. I was a little surprised,but pleased,when I felt Christie squat next to me and heard her hands dip into the water next to mine.

Finally we turned and headed back to the house. As we were just coming out of the woods, I heard the unmistakable sound of a car engine starting up across the yard in the driveway. "Jeff going somewhere?" I asked.

Neither Christie nor her mother answered right away, then Diane said, with a note of apology in her voice, "He has a weekly round of golf with some friends. He's going to meet us later at Sarah's for the cookout."

I didn't respond, but I felt a flicker of anger flare somewhere inside. Not that I expected him to invite me along or anything so noble, but he couldn't even wait for us to get back to the house before taking off? I had wanted to try to corner him again and see exactly what his problem was and if there wasn't some way to resolve it so we could get back to our pre-blindness relationship of mutual disinterest. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than the simmering tension between us now. But I wasn't going to get the chance—not this morning, anyway. I clenched the cane tighter, trying to dissipate my temper rather than let it seep into my voice and behavior.

Instead of walking back around to the front porch where we'd started our journey, Christie led us to the deck at the back of the house. "Want to sit outside for a while?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Sure."

Diane asked if either of us wanted more coffee, and when I expressed interest, she offered to get it and disappeared into the house. Christie led us to a couple of cushioned deck chairs, and for a few moments I just listened to the birds and felt the slight breeze fight a losing battle against the sun's growing warmth on my face. I wanted to ask Christie again about her father, but she brought it up in a roundabout way before I could figure out how to phrase the question. "Are you upset with my father for going golfing?"

I rubbed my fingers absentmindedly over my lips, then turned my head to where she was sitting. "Are you?"

"A little," she admitted. "But he said he couldn't get out of it, because we didn't give them a definite answer about whether we were coming until this week."

"It's not about the golf date, Christie. He just wanted to be somewhere else today. _That's_ what bothers me. Did you ask him what was going on with him?"

"I tried," she began hesitantly, "but he didn't want to talk about it."

"Listen, Christie..." I was having a harder and harder time trying to keep the impatience and frustration out of my voice. "I know your family is big on 'don't ask, don't tell,' but I'm pretty sick of him right now. I've—_we've_—been through a lot this year, and he's not making it any easier. And I'm telling you: something's gotta give here."

"Jimmy..." Whatever she'd been about to say, it turned into a long, drawn-out sigh instead.

"No, Christie—I'm not going to just sit around and wait for him to _forgive_ me for reclaiming my life, if that's what his problem is."

Christie seemed about to say something more, but the sliding glass door opened, and Diane's footsteps neared us. "Here's your coffee, Jim," she said uncertainly.

I held up my hand, and she awkwardly touched the handle to my palm. "Be careful, the mug's hot."

I swallowed a sigh. "Thanks, Diane. Listen, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," she said, and I heard another chair slide across the deck as she pulled one up and sat down nearby.

"Jimmy, no," Christie interjected. "Just let it go for now, okay?"

I shook my head. She might've accused me many times of not sharing my feelings in our marriage, but when it came to her family, Christie was the one who loved to stick her head in the sand and pretend everything was fine. "Is Jeff upset with me for something?"

Diane didn't answer at first, and I would've given anything to have seen her physical reaction to my question. "He worries about both of you," she said finally. "He's afraid you'll get hurt again."

I snorted indelicately. "That might be part of it, but honestly? I'm sensing more anger than fatherly concern."

More silence. "I don't know what to say, Jim. He's not _angry_ at you for getting shot, if that's what you mean."

I rubbed my lip some more, leaning back into the chair. Taking a moment to think about how to verbalize my thoughts, I took another sip of coffee. Whatever I said wasn't going to make Diane suddenly open up to me, that much was clear. But I'd been trained too thoroughly in getting to the truth to give up entirely, like Christie was suggesting, and just wait for my father-in-law to get over it. Because after that morning's conversation, I wasn't sure he ever would. And I wouldn't subject Christie or myself to that kind of discomfort indefinitely.

Christie put her hand on top of mine, which was resting on the chair arm, and rubbed comfortingly. "I'm getting a little warm out here—do you want to go back in?" she asked, in an obvious effort to leave the conversation behind.

I grabbed the folded cane from my lap and stood, shaking it out. "Ladies first," I told them, managing a small half-smile. Frankly, I was as tired as Christie was of discussing this issue with no resolution. But as I followed their footsteps into the house, I resolved again to get my answers directly from the source before the weekend was out.


End file.
